


Witch of the Woods

by Catspaw_Press



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catspaw_Press/pseuds/Catspaw_Press
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whispered songs of these trees and flowers were a secret she kept deep insider her, so closely nestled to her bones that she had to take careful steps, arms held in what her instructors have deemed a "dignified carriage"--fit for a queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1.

"Today is a joyous occasion," Molly chanted into the mirror, trying and failing to quell the terror pushing against the locked bars of her ribs and spine. A fierce wave of panic welled within her as her eyes caught on her wedding gown, hopelessly ensnared in the greenery that had sprung up overnight.

Spreading thickly across every surface in the stone chamber, the thorny vines and flowers had risen to protect her as she'd thrashed alone in her bed locked in nightmares of witch hunts and icy water filling her lungs.

Molly focused, taking the deep breathes her father, King Edward of Deercliff, had taught her before he died. He had been similarly cursed (though he perversely insisted on calling it a gift) and had taught Molly how to use and, more importantly, control her abilities.

_In, one, two, three, Out, one two, three._

Gradually, her muscles relaxed, the vines retreating like lovers in the night.

The whispered songs of these trees and flowers were a secret she kept deep insider her, so closely nestled to her bones that she had to take careful steps, arms held in what her instructors have deemed a "dignified carriage"--fit for a queen.

Taking one last glance around the room, Molly walked quietly to unbolt the bedroom door, her bare feet on cold stone the only sound. With another deep breath, Molly opened the door leading to the private sitting room, taking her last steps as Dutchess Ariana Magdelena of Bordergreene, last born daughter of Edward, King of Deercliff. Her spine grew straighter with each step, barely pausing when her lady’s maid settled a heavy ruby tiara in Molly’s elaborately styled hair, a bright swath of flame in nest of cinnamon and clove--A gift from her husband to be. She stepped into the delicate heels Lady Mary held out. Their exchanged small smiles settled the remainder of Molly’s nervous energy.

“Ready, dear.” The blonde woman asked. Molly jerked her chin once, indicating if not readiness at least acquiescence. With that Mary rose, moving around the delicate pale gold brocade wedding gown, embroidered all over with vines and flowers of every color-- every plant in the Wyr Forest seeming to burst from Molly’s very skin. Molly braced herself against the weight the heavy ceremonial cloak, a deep green velvet train spattered with golden charms in the shape of leaves and bees, lined around the edges with snowy fur that would trail at least seven feet behind her. The family heirloom would be removed by her new husband and replaced with his own, a symbol of his protection and fidelity according to Mary.  

Molly’s brother burst through the doors without bothering to knock. He clasped his hands in a flamboyant gesture and settling his face in facsimile of tender pride.

“Well don’t you look lovely, Little Sister.” He said in his oddly lilting voice.

Molly’s hands paused where they had been smoothing fabric across her hips. “Thank you, James.” The trees outside swaying closer to the castle on the breeze. James's eyes flickered away from her face noticing the movement, a sinister smile curling across his face.

Borne of King Edmund’s first wife, Prince James Moriarty of Deercliff had not inherited his father’s gift for life, instead taking after his mother and her melancholy obsession with decay--a proclivity that only seemed to deepen upon her death. Once by chance, while playing hide-n-seek in the garden with Constance, she’d seen James wring the neck of a swallow he’d lured into his hand with seed. She watched him pull out a knife and cut the bird's belly open, using the tip to unravel it’s intestines. Hours later, after Constance claimed she was too old for such boring games, Molly found him on the terrace charming Lady Taninger--a blue and white swallow on his shoulder.

Molly didn’t think of it again until Constance’s fourteenth birthday. James had poured her a glass of wine, saying that she was a woman now and could drink whatever she wanted. As he looked at Constance over the rim of his gold cup, Molly saw the same thing in his eyes that she’d seen that day before twisting the neck of the small bird--The snap of the swallows fragile bones echoing in the clink of their goblets.

After that Molly’s older sister, The Princess Constance Beatrice of Flowermoore, changed. The previously bright, if arrogant, girl became forgetful and withdrawn. One day, working together in the herb garden (King Edward insisted his daughters learn at least vaguely useful skills and had Molly and Constance trained as healers) Molly spotted a set of dark purple ovals on Constance’s wrist. Molly grabbed her sister hand pulling up the sleeve.

“What happened here?” Molly asked, shifting her gaze to Constance’s face.

“I-I don’t remember.” She replied, looking at the marks on her arm as if noticing them for the first time.

“Did someone grab you?”

“I--” Constance’s face twisted into angry panic. “This is silly. We still have to harvest the feverfew and I don’t want to be weeding this garden for the rest of my life.” She snapped closing the subject.

The next years were marked in more carefully concealed bruise and Constance’s increasingly unraveling reality. The servants would find her wandering the halls with no memory of how she had gotten there. She began having waking nightmares of a spider nested in her ear, summoning Molly to her chambers at all hours to prepare poultices and potions.

“It’s there Molly, he keeps whispering to me--Awful, horrible things. I can’t see anymore because the web is always in my eyes. Please help me.” Constance would cry, her nails digging into the skin of Molly’s wrist.

The worst day of Molly’s life started with a view of a perfect blue sky, lazy white clouds floating slowly across the window closest to her bed. The door burst open, Constance bearing a tray of pastries and tea, a wide dreamy smile stretching across her face--the first good day in long time. If Molly concentrated she could recall some of the old vibrancy in the premature lines of Constance’s face. She climbed into Molly’s bed, just like when they were children.

“Breakfast in bed, Your Majesty of the Wood?” Molly laughed remembering the nickname.

“Only if you’ll join me, Highness of the Glen.” Molly was still slathering butter on a fresh scone when Lady Mary came in, an air of solemn dread drenching the room.

“What’s the matter Mary?” Molly asked the bite of scone paused between the plate and her mouth.

“It’s your father, my Lady.” Mary paused, struggling for words.

“What about my father?” Molly snapped fear replacing joy, the flowers on the bedside table withering.

“The King was found dead in his chamber this morning.” Mary stated plainly. Molly overturned the tray scrambling out of bed, ignoring the shattered china and spilled tea as she ran from the chamber to stopping until she reached her father’s quarters. Molly pushed her way through the crowd of people choking her father’s bed chamber.

“Father?” Molly pressed her fingers in the pulse point on his throat. Nothing.

“Father, please.” She began pressing on the chest of the corpse that had once been the person she loved most in the world. She collapsed crying, pressing her ear over his heart praying to hear anything at all. A faint whisper, distinctly, crushingly not a heartbeat, rose to meet Molly’s ears.

The dying cries of a seed that had never become a tree calling from her father’s veins. James grabbed her, gathering Molly to his chest, tenderly rubbing her back. The very picture of the perfect protective brother, now king. The tang of bitter almond rose from Moriarty’s skin. He could not have made the poison himself.

Molly collapsed, the weight of grief and betrayal to much to bear. The next days passed in a blur, the only constant her sister’s unrelenting cheer. Constance seemed unable to understand what had happened and spent the entire funeral humming nursery rhymes.

Molly found the mortar and pestle hidden with dozens of peach stones in a chest in her sister rooms.  When confronted, Constance laughed.

“Because the spider told me too, silly goose, and there was no rain about. Everyone knows that.” She sighed,”I’m so happy Majesty. Isn’t this just the best day?” Molly clutched her insane sister’s face trying to find the strength to forgive her.

“You’re a monster.” Molly whispered, not sure who she meant.

Constance’s mental state continued to deteriorate, periods of pained lunatic ramblings followed by uncontainable euphoric joy. Members of her father’s cabinet began falling ill, dying of usually slow brain fevers and cancers. Constance would be found listlessly wandering their far parts of the castle in the mornings, never sure how she had gotten there. Whispers of witch and conjurer started floating around the castle.

When a chicken bone, delicately carved all over with spiders and webs, was found in the throat of Xavier Graves, her father’s undersecretary, not even James could save Constance from the mob’s fear.

Molly remembered the castle guard locking them together in the council chambers as the villagers downed Constance in the garden pond, the sound of her delighted laughter rising above the roar of their angry jeers. It was when James was holding her, his tears streaming into her hair that she noticed it. A small birthmark on the side of his neck, just behind his ear, shaped like a spider. She stiffened in his arms, Constance’s ramblings echoing in sing song through her memory.

_The itsy-bitsy spider crawled up the water spout..._

Three months later, James announced her engagement over the breakfast table.

“Congratulations are in order, Little Sister. King Mycroft of Shadowness made a request for your hand on behalf of his brother--I think his name is William...something--And I accepted on your behalf. How wonderful, right?”

So this is where it lead, tense months of watching each other closely and he was selling her like cattle to the king of a volcanic wasteland.

“Ready?” James voice shook Molly back to present day. “Best not keep the man waiting.” He said offering his arm to his sister.

Molly forced a smile, “Of course, James.” She gingerly placed her palm on his forearm.

The ceremony was fairly speedy, so far as royal weddings go, only two hours. When at last Prince William Sherlock of Crystalview finally attached his family's cloak- black velvet studded with diamonds arranged into the eastern constellations of Shadowness lined with black and white ermine--Molly met her husband’s eyes for the first time, struck by the fine bones in his handsome face, eyes the blue of a stormy, changing sky.

“This mantle is a symbol of my strength and fidelity. With it I swear to honor and protect you the rest of my days.” His voice wrapped around her, making her feel safe for the first time in years.

“I accept this mantle,” Molly replied, placing her palm on William’s heart in a practiced motion. “In exchange I offer the solace of my arms and the life in my body. With it I swear to love and honor you the rest of my days.”

The cathedral erupted in cheers as Molly finished her vow, white petals raining down on the newlywed couple as the processed back down the aisle.

They took their places sitting to the right of Molly’s new brother-in-law at the high table. The chair to James’s right empty and draped in black cloth.

“How was your journey to Deercliff, Prince William?” Molly asked, distracting herself away from bad memories, spearing a tender piece of fresh asparagus. William met her eyes, a look of disappointed boredom flickering across his face.

“Sherlock.” He replied brusquely, forking up and other bite of roasted red potato and kale.

“What?” Molly asked.

“If we are going to be forced to do this, then I will need you to at least call me Sherlock. Everyone in my family does and, as you are now part of my family, you will as well.” Sherlock turned back to his meal. His chair bumped slightly, Sherlock turning to glare at his brother. “The trip was boring, as most long trips are. What about you, Ariana? Ready for the journey to East Castle?”

“It’s Molly actually.” She replied, her statement surprising Sherlock’s eyes away from his plate. “I prefer to be called Molly. My father--Please, just Molly is fine.” Her husband face softened a bit.

“Alright, Molly then. Best enjoy warm food while you have the chance. We leave tomorrow for Shadowness and the cook can’t even properly boil and egg.”

With that they settle into a comfortable silence, each reflecting on how in a single afternoon their lives had completely changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleh, I feel so much better. Sorry everyone, but that had to get out.
> 
> Gown References  
> http://www.theroyalforums.com/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=218650&d=1133883793
> 
> http://www.gannett-cdn.com/-mm-/4e82a3d0f9549da7b80a20c6c1662049c30dd51d/c=137-0-2957-2120&r=x404&c=534x401/local/-/media/2015/05/04/USATODAY/USATODAY/635663716207782007-AP-2015-MET-MUSEUM-COSTUME-INSTITUTE-BENEFIT-GALA-72809254.JPG
> 
> http://thezoereport.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/valentino-tiered-dress-600x900.jpg


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hungry peasants tended to lead to dead kings.

As King of Shadowness, Mycroft’s official stance on war was that it generally something to be avoided. If he were being honest though, Mycroft would admit he much preferred the urgency and challenge of a planning a battle to the mind numbing bureaucracy of peace. Give him a good border skirmish any day. But Border skirmishes didn’t keep his subjects fed, and hungry peasants tended to lead to dead kings. So, for now at least, Shadowness was in the business of making friends. 

When Mycroft had inherited the kingdom, Shadowness had been on the verge of collapse. The black hills of Shadowness contained riches beyond the imagining of any other sovereign nation, but you couldn’t eat diamonds, there were no seeds to be sown from iron ore. The peasants were dying in droves of starvation and wasting sickness, while nobles bartered fistfuls gemstones and gold for meager sacks of flour. The vast tracts of land within its border were rich with minerals and stones, but couldn’t sustain any but the heartiest of crops. The kingdom relied completely on on the imports of fickle allies for even basic necessities. 

Those first years had truly been the best of Mycroft’s life. Solving the food crisis and taking control of inflation rates, all while crushing coups and rebellions. For the first time in his life he had a problem that didn’t bore him. It was during this time that Sherlock seemed to blossom as well, finally awaking from the opiate laced stupor that had consumed his teens. Sherlock could deduce a man’s secrets with little more effort than a blink or a yawn. He loved getting to the bottom of every rebellious intrigue. It started with a whispered game of Deductions over dinner one night. They would pick a courtier at random and try to deduce based on observations what the person had done that day. 

“It seems you are going to die tonight, Brother Mine.” Sherlock whispered over a dinner of shellfish stewed in a briny seaweed broth with tender yellow potatoes.

Mycroft picked at a dense roll of barley bread flecked generously with tiny pieces of yellow lichen and juniper berries. “Is that so?” Mycroft replied drolly, smearing a generous portion of soft sheep cheese on the roll.

“Yes. Look at the bags under his eyes. That man hasn’t slept in days, but has been in constant, restless motion since he stepped foot in the hall.” Sherlock explained, pointing Mycroft’s attention to Lord Beardshire’s bouncing legs and clenching fingers. “There’s an ink stain on his hands and sleeve. And where is his horrid wife? Either his whole family has contracted the sickness, or he’s been to visit his accountant and moved them out of town.” 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, recalling the intelligence his best informant had given him earlier that afternoon. Beardshire had done all those things under the pretext of moving his family to his seaside estate for the summer. 

“And why, Little Brother, does this have you celebrating my early demise? Wishful thinking perhaps?” He asked, finishing his roll with a generous drizzle of precious honey. Sherlock grabbed the confection just as it reached Mycroft’s mouth. Sherlock rose from his seat like the dark spectre rising from the grave, his black and gold doublet and cloak swishing beneath the din of the hall. Walking around the head of the table, Sherlock placed the sugary treat on the fidgeting lords plate. He bent over and whispered something in the man’s ear. A look of crazed panic passed over the man’s features as he struggled against the hand on his shoulder. Trapped, the man looked at his plate--steeling himself- before popping the biscuit--still dripping with honey--into his mouth. Sherlock walked away in distaste.

“You have the most appalling sense of smell,Mycroft, and the most notorious sweet tooth in the kingdom.” Sherlock replied taking his chair next to Mycroft again as the still twitching body of Lord Beardshire was dragged away by two castle guards. Sherlock dumped out the honey crock, a sticky mass of feathers and black fungus plopping wetly onto Mycroft’s plate. An ill-wish.

Mycroft looked at his brother, lips twisted into a pleased smirk. “It seems I may have use of you yet.” 

The next day Mycroft appointed Sherlock the keeper of Shadowness’s most precious treasure--The Black Diadem of Crytalveiw.

“You must be joking, Mycroft. The Diadem doesn’t exist, it’s just a silly fairy story mother used to tell us.”

“I assure you, Little Brother, the stories are true.” Legend told of a glittering black diadem that had been gifted to the first true king of Shadowness by the dwarves and fairies for whom he had conquered the land. Crafted from the black diamonds mined from the cliffs of Crystalveiw, the crown imbued it’s wearer with the ability to see into a man’s soul. 

“Or rather essentially true.” Mycroft amended. The diadem was not artifact, but an ancient euphemism for a secret network of spies--each agent jewels in the king's crown. 

“All of Shadowness now lays in your hands, Sherlock. Make use of that apparently brilliant brain of yours.”

Sherlock exceeded all expectation, finally able to lose himself in something more interesting than the bottom of an opium bowl. In a few short weeks Sherlock revealed a buzzing hornet’s nest of intrigue, Beardshire’s attempt on Mycroft’s life only the beginning of the unrest that plagued the nation.

As the nobility dwindled, Mycroft began making discreet inquiries, offering estates--conveniently freed up by the beheading of traitors and rebels--to any scholars in botany and agronomy willing to relocate to Shadowness. That was when he learned of King Edmund and the incredible gardens of Deercliff, the soil there apparently so rich it could support even pomegranate trees and orchids. According to the rumors, the King’s youngest daughter, Ariana Magdalena, was responsible for this minor miracle.

“If she hadn’t been a woman,” Lord Ferendral said,”I’d have taken her on as student myself.” 

Mycroft found this laughable--for all her apparent feminine weakness, the princess was clearly more skilled than any of his doddering tribe of fresh nobles. Mycroft dispatched an agent at once to gather intelligence on this apparent miracle worker.

She was perfect, unwed with a large dowry that included not only land, but a massive seed bank from every plant she’d managed to grow in the castles gardens and greenhouses. It wouldn’t even cost him a peerage--his brother had one free. A new princess for Shadowness, an heir for his throne. Food for his people. And with the scandal of surrounding her sister’s death, there were no other offers to compete with. There were no downsides. Though looking at his brother stiffly wheel his new bride around the dance floor, Mycroft was beginning to question the wisdom of his decision. 

An heir was absolutely necessary. Mycroft’s own wife, Anthea, was barren--not that it bothered them much, niether having the disposition necessary to rear offspring. Anthea was an excellent queen that, had she been blessed, would have made an astoundingly horrible mother. She had a quiet open demeanor that made people trust her as she ruthlessly manipulated them. In truth, she was one of Mycroft’s favorite weapons and played no small part in turning the tide of public opinion in the crown’s favor. If the gentry and commoners treated Mycroft with distant mistrust, they adored his queen with a frightening zealous devotion, which suited the secretive King of Shadows just fine. 

The couple returned to the table, duty discharged, as a magnificent seven tiered cake was wheeled into the center of the room. The swirling pink confection was piled high with sugared flowers and stone fruits. Mycroft controlled his expression, he had never seen such an abundance of peaches, plums, and apricots in his entire life. The attendants cut the cake, serving the newlyweds first. 

“I’ve never tasted cake before.” Mycroft heard his brother whisper to his bride. She looked up, her large brown eyes impossibly wider. “Really?”

“Really.” Sherlock teased, the rich warm meal and their quiet conversation having apparently improved his mood. Mycroft also suspected Sherlock’s valet, John, had a small part in it. In between courses the boisterous man had pulled the moody prince aside and delivered what was no doubt a blistering lecture on politeness and making the best of a permanent situation. 

“I guess you’ll have to try it to find out.” Molly forked up her own piece of the fragrant white cake as Sherlock took a bite of his. Sherlock swallowed with visible effort before putting his fork down. 

“That is vile. How can you stand so much sweetness?” Molly laughed in response . 

“You are the only person I’ve ever met to hate cake. You might like the peaches better.” 

Mycroft’s brother eyed Molly’s plate, “You don’t seem to enjoy it either.” Looking pointedly her abandoned forkful of buttercream and pastry.

Molly stilled, “My brother can never remember how much I despise stone fruits. He serves them at every meal.”

Sherlock looked at his bride before shifting his gaze to his brother-in-law, the new king of Deercliff. Moriarty lifted his fork in a sort of toast in response, a strange smile puffing his cheeks.

Mycroft bit into his own slice of cake, taking pleasure in the wave of tart sugar that swept his tongue. The King of Deercliff stood then, beginning the formal presentation of his sister’s dowry to the Prince of Shadowness. 

“Now I’d like everyone to raise a glass,” Moriarty finished raising his own. “As we toast to the continued prosperity of our two nations. May the bonds between our two families only continue to  _ grow. _ ” Ending the toast with an odd high pitched lilt.

Mycroft looked back down at his plate, already anticipating his brother’s leftover piece of cake. Mycroft frowned slightly, noticing the wilted garland festooning the table for the first time. Sometime in the course of the evening all the light pink roses had turned brown.        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleh-heh-heh. Thanks guys, I'm now thoroughly infected with this story. Completely ruined my day, I had things planned. I spent three hours figuring out what Shadowness's imports are. I had to look up what lichen tastes like. 
> 
> Cake references  
> http://www.stylemepretty.com/vault/image/2687490  
> http://guide.weddingchicks.com/100-wedding-cakes-wow/  
> http://www.modwedding.com/wp-content/uploads/wedding-dessert-ideas-8-10062015-km.jpg


	3. Chapter 3

John watched as Sherlock stood oddly to the side of his wife’s carriage door, seemingly attempting to hand her out of the vehicle. Apparently the prince was taking John’s advice to heart. Their hands clashed in an awkward tangle, ending with her majesty nearly falling out of the carriage. Sherlock must have pulled her a bit. Luckily the idiot caught her before she ruined her plush rabbit fur cloak in the mud. 

John rolled his eyes, watching the pair of them blush and stutter. They’d been like this whole journey, just slightly out of sync. Sherlock would reach for his new wife, just as she tired of waiting and turned away. Molly would open her mouth to start a conversation at the very same moment Sherlock noted an interesting bird or bit of grass. Their conversations always fizzled out in a stilted mess of, “Sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt, what were you saying.” And “No,no, it wasn’t important. Go on.” 

The silence between the pair so uncomfortable everyone in a ten foot radius felt bad on their behalf.

“Just talk to her about stuff you like.” John had advised one night, hidden in the make-shift alleyways of their temporary metropolis.

“I like murder’s, John.” Sherlock had replied, the sturdy tents on either side of them billowing.

“Well not that then.” John replied, sucking on his tongue thoughtfully. “What does she like? No-nevermind, I know you don’t know. That would be a normal, human thing to ask someone.” Sherlock’s face settled into irritated, insulted impatience, lingering only because he genuinely had no idea how to talk to this woman. “You could tell her about East Castle and Crystalview, she must be curious about her new home. Or-wait, what about the Rawling’s case? Didn’t you solve that one by identifying the plants on the man’s shoes? I thought she was a herbalist, or something. You used to study botany, surely you left some  _ shelf space _ for stuff like that.” John offered, referring to the prince’s purported “Mind Palace.”

Sherlock turned away abruptly, black cape fluttering dramatically behind him as he walked toward the tent he shared with Molly. 

“Why thank you, John.” The valet muttered to himself, voice pitched low. “No problem, sir. It was both convenient and easy, you ungrateful arse…” John’s muttering died away as he tried to navigate his way back to the cook fire, lost in the canvas maze. 

John found them again around the wagons containing her ladyship's dowry, his hands wrapped around a warm bowl of unidentifiable mush. John scanned the crowd in the pink and orange light of the setting sun, trying to find the princess’s lady-in-waiting-- _ Wouldn’t mind wrapping my hands around her _ \--when snippets of their conversation met his ear. 

They were both standing front of one of the wagons, its hinged sides propped up like the awning on gypsy merchant’s stall. Inside, a complex network of shelves revealed rows of plants and seedlings. John noted the skull and crossbones painted on the wood with a roll of his eyes. Of course he’d find Sherlock lurking by the poisonous plants. 

The princess was buried up to her elbow, long, loose, calfskin gloves covering her to the shoulder, while Mary, her lady-in-waiting, handed her pruning scissors or a delicate glass bottle to mist the plants. Sherlock must have said something shocking, because a surprised feminine chuckle reached John from across the camp. 

“...he must have dropped dead before reaching the gate.”

“How did you know?” Asked Sherlock. The princess plucked a deep purple berry from one of the plants in the wagons network of shelves. Clutching the berry carefully between thumb and forefinger, she grasped Sherlock’s wrist, uncurling his fingers to place the ripe berry in his palm. 

“Vesperia, a completely innocuous flower until it fruits.” Her ladyship replied. “It takes only three berries --consumed or absorbed through the skin-- to stop a heart. However, when prepared in a tincture and applied to the skin, it’s a very effective pain killer. The murderer must have mixed the undiluted juices into the oil for Sir Albert’s leather gloves.”

Sherlock’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. “It took John ages to figure that out.” 

“John?” 

“My valet, he assists me on cases sometimes.” Sherlock looked down at the dark fruit, carefully pinching it between thumb and forefinger. “How would you have done it?”

Molly surveyed the contents of the wagon with expert authority. She pointed to a chain of delicate white flowers. “Eponia’s Chimes?” Sherlocked asked looking at the lover’s charm--each tender blossom the embodiment of love’s aching sweetness.

“I’d present it to him every time I saw him at court, he’d have to wear it on his lapel. Chronic exposure to the fumes would have killed him in just three months.”

“I’d use River Gum.” Sherlock pointed to a leafy plant with yellow veins running across deep green leaves. “Left under the sole of his shoe. The sap would seep into his skin as he trampled it underfoot. It’d only take a few hours.”

“I’d never thought of that.” Molly replied thoughtfully, as though she’d spent quite a lot of time thinking of ways to poison people.

“Won’t be using it against me I hope?” Sherlock teased. Molly only smiled sweetly, plucking the dark berry from his grasp before crushing it into the dirt.

“I hardly know you well enough for that.” John watched them smile at each other, Sherlock’s eyes flitting from eyes to cheeks to mouth, they lingered there for an eternity. Just as John was gearing up to shout “Just kiss her you great prat!” They jerked away from each other, spell broken. 

“Let me help you with your gloves.” Sherlock said, stepping closer to reach for the clasp at her shoulder. His fingers brushed her neck as he unlatched the garment.

“Thank you.” Her majesty whispered-- so quietly John could only make out the shape of her lips releasing the words.

“Of course, Molly.” Sherlock said meeting her eyes again, their chests nearly touching. Sherlock turned away abruptly, walking quickly across the camp. Not quite running, but close enough for John to call him a coward to his face later. John looked back at her Ladyship. Her arm was crossed over her chest, the fingers of her right hand lightly skimming the skin Sherlock had just touched. Her thumb moved down the column of her throat until it rested in the hollow between her collar bones where a blush had begun to creep down from her flaming cheeks. The first stars of night twinkled in a deepening lavender sky.

_ Idiot _ . John thought, taking his now chilly dinner to a table of other soldiers. 

When you slept in a closet (antechamber if you wanted to get technical) you were regrettably privy to things you’d really rather not know. And John knew quite a bit more about Lord Holmes and his Lady then he ever wanted to. 

For instance, he frequently caught his Lordship in full conversation with a skull. He also knew that her Ladyship would take tea in her chamber, but not in her bed. They both liked the dry biscuity pastries the Deercliff staff had left for them the morning after their wedding. John had arranged the tray of berry flecked scones and real cow’s milk butter himself--mouth watering the entire time. When the Princess had mentioned how much she would miss them, Sherlock had asked John to-- _ acquire- _ \- the recipe and ingredients from the kitchens before they left.

He also knew that Lord and Lady had yet to consummate their marriage. The clumsiness that tracked all their interactions had apparently followed them past the bedroom door.

John’s questions to Sherlock on the matter were steadfastly ignored, or answered in a way that deliberately eschewed the original intent.

_ Whatever’s going on between the two, it’s for them to figure out. _ John thought, watching Sherlock set his wife safely back on the ground. John had too many other things to do. Like Lady Mary, for instance. John stepped forward to offer his arm just as her face popped out of the carriage, an amused smirk twisting her lips. 

“Thank you, perhaps you’ll offer your lord some lessons. He seems to be in sore need.”

“You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References  
> All the poisons are made up, ain’t nobody got time for that. 
> 
> Vesperia based on: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atropa_belladonna
> 
> Eponia’s Chimes based on: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lily_of_the_valley
> 
> River Gum: Totally 1000% made up, based on nothing
> 
> http://survinat.com/2014/11/poisonous-berries-and-plants/


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt the same spark of life he’d felt when she’d laid her hand on his chest, the warm earth of in her eye’s cradling him as she laid her blood and body before him. He could feel it in his blood now, setting him on fire from the inside.

Sherlock heard the clink of glasses and cutlery all around him, bright points of light in grey din of quiet unfamiliar conversation. He turned his head to ask the meaning of a particularly queer turn of phrase. Molly wasn’t there. He moved his hand to rest where hers would have been on the arm of the chair. The light shifted bathing the hall in the soft golden light of a thousand candles, the noise quieting until all of the their wedding guests had disappeared, the eyes of Sherlock’s brother-in-law fading into twin emeralds inlaid into the rich wood of his throne.

Sherlock was just rising from his own ornate wooden chair when he heard it--The whisper of fine silk against coarse stone. Sherlock turned toward the hall’s grand entrance to see the train of his wife’s elegant wedding gown disappear toward the stairs.

All at once the hall was crowded again, Sherlock stuck in a cloud of courtiers trying to remember how to breath. He felt the same spark of life he’d felt when she’d laid her hand on his chest, the warm earth of in her eye’s cradling him as she laid her blood and body before him. He could feel it in his blood now, setting him on fire from the inside.

“You’re joking, surely. Black diamonds, I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Sherlock stood rooted, repeating the dull conversation against his will.

“I assure you, Lord Chaucy, it’s no joke. We mine them by the ton at Crystalview.”

“Now, Brother, there’s no need to show off.” The KIng of Deercliff quipped, resolving at Sherlock’s elbow, his eyes still made of emeralds. “You’ve already laid claim to Deercliff’s greatest treasure. See that you treat Molly well, we have our own elves and faeries to protect us.” The crowd around Sherlock laughed as his limbs were released. Their bodies faded as the laughter died away. Path clear, Sherlock raced for the stairs.

He dreamed of it each night, reliving the moment on his wedding night when he realized that he was no longer just Sherlock. He must now be a husband, loving and protecting his wife. 

Loving---what did that even mean? Sherlock’s only taste of that emotion had been stolen from the lips of a double crossing temptress spy--a mistake that had nearly gotten his entire family killed. Sherlock only knew the kind of love that burned when you drank it in--like the juniper and lichen alcohol his father had been fond of or the smoke of hot opium burning your throat and lungs just before the fluid euphoria filled you. In the morning you were always left bone dry and wanting more. 

Love was a weakness to overcome, like any other fragility of the body. But Sherlock had always been weak.

On their real wedding night, not the one he visited in dreams over and over again, Molly had been waiting for him her back to the door, sitting stiffly, back straight, on the far side of the bed. The shape of her body had been silhouetted through the gauzy white gown she had worn-the simply ruffle around the collar and sleeves the only adornment. In that moment, the wealth of her cinnamon colored hair pulled over her shoulder revealing the soft skin where her shoulder met her neck, he was stuck by his extraordinary luck. 

He undressed quickly the only sounds in the room the crackling from the fire and the russle of cloth against skin. He donned the sleep shirt John had laid out before sitting on top of the coverlet one leg curled underneath him. Sherlock leaned over and lightly grasped Molly’s shoulder. He felt the muscles in her bicep and shoulder tense, neck stiffening with fear, eyes locked on the fireplace on the opposite wall. Sherlock did the only thing he could think of.

Sherlock released his grip and began patting her shoulder in an odd, stilted rhythm. Her shoulder’s relaxed slightly and he withdrew whispering “Goodnight.” He scrambled awkwardly to get into the enormous bed, flinging aside extraneous pillows and untucking sheets. He laid on his side with his back to Molly, praying that she would do the same. 

The scene played before his sleeping eyes now. The fire on the opposite side of the bed flickering in perfect imitation as he finally reached the top of the stairs and opened the chamber door. 

Instead of white gauze, his eyes drank in the bare expanse of Molly’s pale back, the dimples above her hips winking at him in the firelight. He sank into the bed fully clothed, not wanting to waste a single moment on foolish necessity.

The memory of her hand in his as they danced at their wedding feast informed the fantasy and he watched his hand settle on her shoulder. The skin he felt was soft and warm and filled with music. He looked up, eyes traveling the length of her long neck, her chin twisted toward him. Sherlock steeled himself against the fear he was afraid to see in her eyes before looking up to meet them. Her lips were curled into a playful smile, and she was not afraid at all. Heart racing Sherlock placed a tender kiss on the point of her shoulder before catching her jaw with two fingers to pull her face to his.

He could still feel her breath across his cheek when he opened his eyes, the sudden chirping of a cricket shocking him awake.

He carefully untangled himself from his sleeping bride. He had woken like this every night, curled around Molly like the vines of wisteria and rising merremia he watched her tend to in morning when she thought he was still sleeping.

Sherlock found he enjoyed observing his wife best in those moments she thought she was alone, every bone in her body relaxing into an indescribably lovely softness. He was enchanted every time.

Sherlock turned to his back throwing the hand he’d just pulled from beneath Molly over his face. This has to stop, he thought. Sherlock noticed the scent of his wife’s body lingering on the sleeve of his sleep shirt causing blood to pulse in his finger tips and mouth. 

Gods above, he wanted her, damn him to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightgown references: https://41.media.tumblr.com/54ab7f37c280ad2759dfa2fe409947c8/tumblr_o2kbs07l0J1qhh7s3o1_500.jpg


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